


A Picture is worth 1000 words

by Chibiness87



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Movie 2: Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald Spoilers, Those two are just too cute for words, Tina POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 16:13:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16684888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chibiness87/pseuds/Chibiness87
Summary: He’s looking at her like he’s the one with a broken heart.





	A Picture is worth 1000 words

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the film on Friday, developed this earworm, and succumbed to my muse.

**A Picture is worth 1000 words** , by **chibiness87**  
**Rating** : G  
**Spoilers** : The Crimes of Grindelwald  
**Disclaimer** : Not Mine

* * *

 

She’s not one to buy celebrity magazines. Not really. The who’s who of the wizarding world as meaningful to her as those in the No-Maj realm. A face on the street, a name on the breeze. Nothing more. But Queenie has been going through a phase recently, following the ins and outs of those with more fame and fortune than she could dare hope to dream of, resulting in glossy pages filling every nook and cranny of their apartment. So there the magazine sits, page opened for her and all of sundry to see.

Newt Scamander is getting married.

She stares at the picture, the face of the woman the same as that of the portrait he carries with him everywhere he goes, in that strange suitcase of his. She seems pretty, now that she has the time to truly look. Dark skin, almond eyes, sleek hair. Another man, presumably Newt’s brother, judging from the nose, stands with them. The monochrome of the article doesn’t give her colours, but she can picture Newt well enough. Off ginger hair, freckled cheeks, blue eyes.

Not that she spent much time looking at his eyes. Or his hair. Or the way the light catches both and highlights the way he manages to seem both world-weary and childlike at the same t-

Ahem.

And she is not in any way shape or form upset at the news of the impending nuptials. Not in any way hurt, that he would look at _her_ , smile at _her_ , bumble and fumble and stutter around _her_ , all while having someone else at home.

Home.

England.

Not New York, or even America, but London. London, where he is English enough to not stand out, and yet wizard enough to be out of place.

She knows what that feels like, being out of place.

Aurors are not normally welcomed back into the fold after being cast out; she has made her own history there.

And it is because of Newt ( _Mr Scamander_ she tells herself firmly, from now on he is only to be _Mr Scamander_ ), that she is even in this position. Able to access the information that, a month ago, a _week_ ago would have seemed impossible. Credence survived.

It takes her weeks, months to track down enough Intel to put forward a case for travelling to Paris. Weeks of research, of listening to the rumours, of tracking a circus down but always just a few days too late. Months of having Grindelwald restrained under lock and key, yet still managing to influence the Ministry.

But still, she manages to move on with her life. She starts dating, convincing herself she is over New- _Mr Scamander_ , sometimes even being able to believe it. But dinners and shows and walks through Central Park remind her of being chased by creatures too wonderful and majestic to be able to fully explain with words, and she finds herself wanting.

Hoping.

 _Newt Scamander is getting married_ , she reminds herself fiercely. He is not hers to want.

She meets someone new, someone who understands her job, who understands her, and who doesn’t run away from it. There are no meals out, no walks in parks. More often than not their dates are spent discussing the latest entrapment spells, or methods of spying without being spotted. There is more to being an Auror than simply catching the bad guys, after all, and here is a man who sees it, who doesn’t make her feel ashamed for choosing the life she has.

Not that Ne- Mr Scamander made her feel that way, but she has read what his thoughts of Aurors are, and it slightly rankles within her nonetheless.

Queenie sees her developing relationship grow, of course she does, and her worried glances become softer, the concern melting from her gaze. _I’m happy for you_ , she thinks to her, in that sisterly way she has, and Tina can’t help but smile in response.

Because she _is_ happy, she realises. Happy and calm and _Mr Scamander_ is just a memory of a guy she met once with a twinkle in his eye and a glint in his smile and who made her heart thump.

( ** _Makes_** her heart thump.)

He had promised to send his book to her in person. A trip back across the Atlantic, just for her. Who does that when they have someone else at home? Who makes promises like that, gets hopes up like that, when there is no way he could have followed through.

How dare he? How _dare_ he?

A new lead comes in, a circus in Paris, and she jumps on the chance to leave. Apologies for cancelling her date, a note left for Queenie. She’ll send her a postcard when she arrives, let her know she is safe, but this is something she has to do.

For Credence, if not for herself.

She cannot fail him again.

Will not fail him again.

Paris is beautiful. Big and majestic and anonymous. She sends the promised postcard, avoids notifying the French Ministry of her arrival, and gets to work.

And of course, of course Mr Scamander is there. Of course he is. With his ginger hair and his freckles and his blue eyes. His case of creatures and his blue tweed coat and his stuttering and fumbling and bumbling manner. Her eyes flick to his hand for a moment, but there is no sign of marriage. Not that many wizards follow the No-Maj way and wear rings, but there are other tells, tells which she has been taught to recognise; all of which are missing.

He is not married. Yet.

There is something off though, something she can’t quite place. She catches a glimpse of his case, notes the gap in the lid, just the right size for a picture to rest there. But before she can get a proper look, before she can enquire, they need to run. Need to solve this mystery before it is too late, before another life is lost.

But he won’t stop. Keeps trying to talk to her, mindless of the pressure of time, like there is something there, something between them, something she can’t quite place. His smile is brittle when he says he’s glad she’s happy, and just for a moment she wants to hit him, because how dare he do this to her. How dare he look at her like she betrayed him, like it is _his_ heart that is the one which is breaking.

How dare he, when he has someone else. Has always had someone else.

But then, hints of the truth comes out, the mistaken identity, and she feels her own heart ache. The something that was off, the something brittle. He _is_ heartbroken, she realises. The picture she was sure should rest in his case- it’s not of the woman in the magazine, not the face of a stranger. It’s _her_. His case contains the most precious things in the world to him, and she has made it there.

Her eyes are like salamanders, he tells her, glinting and changing like fire, and she wonders who told him not to tell her that, when it is the most romantic thing she has ever heard. “Newt, I-”

His name escapes her without thought, without permission, but the way his eyes smile in response makes her glad nonetheless. Her heart gives a leap, and she knows if Queenie were here she would be overwhelmed by the way her thoughts are singing with joy.

Maybe, when this is over, she’ll ask him for that signed copy of his book after all.

* * *

End

thoughts?


End file.
